Saving Liberty (Kissing #6)

by Helena Newbury

  “Because he used to fight here? You fight here!”

  He shook his head. “He didn’t just fight here. He fucking demolished anyone who set foot in the pit. He’s the meanest son of a bitch anyone’s ever seen. A legend.” He lowered his voice and took my hands. “Sylvie, he’s a real bastard. I heard—“

  At that moment, someone else descended the stairs. I recognized the footsteps all too well: unhurried steps in expensive leather shoes and an accompanying clang and rattle of metal. My mind had been spinning with what Alec had told me, but suddenly raw fear pushed all that aside. I felt my shoulders tense up. Alec squeezed my hands. But I could see that he was just as scared as me.

  “Well,” said a voice from the doorway. “Isn’t this cute?”

  Rick scared the crap out of me. Rick scared the crap out of everyone.

  Once, about twenty years ago, Rick had probably been an okay kid. Then—the story goes—his dad beat him so bad his leg didn’t heal right. Little Rick got a walking stick. And maybe from the pain in his leg, maybe from his dad’s cruelty, he developed a mean streak. The sort of kid who beat stray dogs with a car aerial until, exhausted and terrified, they’d fight one another.

  Twenty years on, he’d moved up to people.

  He got through most days, from what I’d seen, by downing coffee and snorting coke. It had left him thin, his eyes bulging from his skull. Not a guy who’d win in a fight. So he’d traded his wooden walking stick for an aluminum cane, vicious as a baseball bat but less conspicuous on the street. It was a gaudy thing with a crystal on top as big as my fist. He kept it polished and he didn’t use it all the time when he walked. He preferred to trail it along walls. It was the cane, banging against the metal staircase that I’d heard as he approached.

  Rick’s favorite way of punishing someone was to get them down on the ground and then beat an arm or a leg with the cane until the bones were powder. And this was the man who basically owned my brother, in the kind of backroom “management” deal that involves no paper or ink, only handshakes and threats.

  Alec could easily have taken him in a fight—maybe even with the cane. But Rick never went anywhere without his protection, two ex-heavyweight boxers called Al and Carl.

  We turned. Rick was in his favorite gray suit with a blood-red shirt and silver tie. He always dressed classy, as if that could disguise what he was. His two bodyguards were right behind him.

  “Am I interrupting something?” asked Rick. “That how it works in Holland? Brothers and sisters get....close?” He leered at us.

  I wanted to kill him. Alec was the one thing I had left in the world. How could Rick take something so good and twist it into something perverted? I shook my head.

  That was a mistake. With Rick, there never was any right answer. Whatever you did, it would end in pain or humiliation.

  “I don’t mind,” said Rick. “If you want to kiss him for good luck. A good, big kiss on the lips.”

  I heard Alec’s intake of breath. Normally, he tried to keep me away from Rick and I was happy to oblige. Coming down here had been a mistake.

  I shook my head again.

  “Rick—” started Alec. He tried to keep his voice level, but I could hear the anger there.

  “WHAT?” screamed Rick and slammed his cane against the pipes beside Alec. Everyone, even his two bodyguards, jumped. The sound reverberated around the room for long seconds. God, his pupils were enormous. He was really coked up. “She should kiss someone, for good luck.” He wasn’t going to let go of the idea. “Maybe she should kiss me.” And his thin lips twisted into what he called a smile.

  Alec was standing close enough to me that I could feel him tense up. I knew he was getting ready to fly at Rick and I knew how that would end. But the idea of kissing Rick made me sick.

  Rick stepped forward. Alec squared up to him. Shit! Rick was going to wind up beating him up, before the fight had even started. I had to do something.

  Before any of them could stop me, I stepped forward and grabbed Rick’s hand where it held his cane. His skin was cold and clammy, very different to Aedan’s warm touch. Rick’s eyes widened in surprise and I thought he was going to hit me. But then I gently lifted his hand, and the cane with it, towards my face, and he relaxed as he saw what I had in mind.

  I brought the ugly, gaudy crystal head of the cane up to my mouth and kissed it softly, the facets sharp against my lips. When I looked up at Rick, he was grinning all over his face.

  “There,” he said. “See? She’s got the idea.”

  Rick planted his cane back on the floor with a hard little rap. I winced. I couldn’t imagine how painful that thing would be, against flesh and bone. “You can take this guy, right?” he asked Alec.

  Alec was still having to restrain himself. “Sure,” he said tightly. “No problem. He’s a little guy. One good hit and he’ll go down.”

  “Good, ‘cause I got a lot of my own money on you, tonight,” said Rick. “Make sure he goes down and stays down.” Then, with a final leer at me, he was walking out into the pit to introduce the fight, his bodyguards trailing him.

  Alec turned to me and pulled me into another hug.

  “You sure about this?” I said. I didn’t know why, but I was suddenly panicking. “There’s still time to pull out.”

  Alec didn’t answer, but I knew what he was thinking: no, there isn’t. Even if we didn’t need the money, you don’t just walk out on one of Rick’s fights. You did what you were told or you had your legs broken.

  “I got this,” said Alec. “He’s just a little guy.” He released me from the hug but I kept stubbornly holding him until the last second. Then, reluctantly, I tapped my fists against his like we always did, our good luck charm.

  “I’ll see you afterward,” said Alec. “Go upstairs and watch. And stay the hell away from Aedan.”

  And then he was jogging out into the pit.

  Sylvie

  The crowd had gone quiet as I climbed the stairs back up to the balcony. I could make out Rick’s voice, telling them who they’d be watching. “From the land of tulips and dykes”—the crowd snickered—”undefeated in The Pit these last three weeks, The Dutchman!”

  Alec and I had both been born right here in New York, but he had to make it sound good.

  “And stepping up to take him on tonight, a challenger from Detroit—Morgan!”

  I faltered on the stairs. That was weird. Normally, Rick had a whole spiel. Did that mean he didn’t know this Morgan guy? What if he was dangerous?

  I raced up the rest of the stairs, slipped through the crowd and leaned over the balcony to look. To my relief, Morgan didn’t look like much at all. He was at least five years older than Alec, maybe more. And he didn’t have Alec’s muscle or his height. Maybe this would be alright after all.

  The Pit didn’t go in for niceties. The bell was an air horn, blown every three minutes to give the fighters a minute to recover. There was no grinning blonde in a bikini holding up round numbers and no medics on standby for injuries. Most important of all, there was no referee. The rules were simple: you fought until one of you couldn’t get up.

  The horn sounded and Alec went in fast and confident, swinging a heavy right hook. I think he meant to take out Morgan fast, before anything went wrong.

  Almost immediately, it did.

  Alec wasn’t slow on his feet, but Morgan made him look like he was sleepwalking. Whenever Alec swung, Morgan was somewhere else. His punches weren’t heavy, but they were lightning-fast and precise. Within a minute, Alec was sweating and off-balance, guarding his side where Morgan had hit his kidneys.

  I could feel my chest tensing up with every hit my brother took. Who the hell is this guy? Who’s Rick put him up against?

  By the second round, Alec was starting to tire. He wasn’t used to a small, nimble fighter. He couldn’t turn fast enough, couldn’t protect his sides when Morgan darted around him. And then a vicious kick to the back of the leg made him crumple and stagger. His hands went ou
t for balance, leaving him exposed, and Morgan started punching him in the face. One, two, three, four—

  Alec finally got his hands up, but he was reeling. He slumped back against the concrete wall, blood pouring from between his fingers.

  My insides had clenched into a tight, hard knot. I could barely breathe.

  In the next break between rounds, the difference between them was obvious: Alec had to hold himself up using the wall, wiping the blood from his eyes. Morgan was rock steady and untroubled—not taunting and whooping but not worried, either. Just a professional, doing a job.

  Then he stripped off his tank top and I saw the tattoos. Military tattoos. Rick had put my brother in the ring with some ex-Army guy.

  The next round started.

  I bolted for the stairs.

  Sylvie

  Al, one of Rick’s bodyguards, was watching from the little side room. He held his arms out to block me, a solid wall of suited muscle.

  “Stop the fight!” I screamed. “He’ll kill him!”

  He shook his head. “You know how it works. Crowd have paid their money. It’s over when it’s over.”

  When one of them can’t get up. I could feel the bile rising in my throat. Behind Al, I could see Alec being driven back by a flurry of blows. His head rocked left, right, left. I imagined his brain being hammered inside his skull. All that delicate artistry that made him him: his personality, his kindness, his memories of our parents. It was being wiped out, punch by punch.

  I launched myself at the pit. I’d throw myself between the two of them, if I had to. But then Al caught me easily around the waist and held me back. I stretched, clawing at the air, reaching for Alec. “No!”

  The punches kept coming. Alec’s legs went to jelly and he fell to his knees, his head lolling forward. He’s going to go down anyway. Stop, now! Stop! Please stop!

  Morgan didn’t look cruel as he did it. He didn’t gloat. He was just like Alec, trapped in the system Rick had created. But he needed to win, just as Alec had.

  I remember screaming as he drew his arm back. Alec’s eyes opened for a second and I thought he looked at me.

  Then Morgan’s fist smashed against the side of his head and he fell to the floor.

  Sylvie

  There was no moment of victory for Morgan. Rick didn’t come and hold his fist aloft and proclaim him the new champion. The crowd fell quiet—they could sense that things had gone very badly wrong. Rick’s fighters weren’t supposed to lose, not on their home turf. Especially when he’d been betting on them.

  Morgan slunk past me with an apologetic glance. Al finally let me go and I ran to Alec’s body. He was slumped on his back, his legs bent awkwardly. Shit. Shit! Should I move him? Not move him? Is he breathing? “ALEC!”

  No response. But I could see a hint of movement in his chest. He was still alive—just.

  The crowd was clearing out fast, now the entertainment was over. I heard the distinctive rattle and clang of Rick descending the stairs. As he approached, I spoke without looking up. “Have you called 911? We need to get him to the hospital….” I looked up, expecting to see...not apology, not from Rick. But concern. Regret.

  What I got was something else altogether.

  “Wake up!” screamed Rick. His cane sliced through the air and hit Alec’s leg only a few inches from where my hand was resting. I heard the snap as the bone broke.

  Alec jerked but didn’t open his eyes. I flung myself instinctively off him and crawled to one side, my arms up to protect myself.

  “You cost me twenty grand, you weak little fuck!” yelled Rick. Oh Christ—he was even more coked up than before.

  My brain was trying to come to terms with what I was hearing. How could he blame Alec? But this was Rick. Someone else was always to blame.

  “It—It wasn’t his fault,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “The other guy was ex-Army or something. I saw the tattoo.” I looked towards Alec. “Please, Rick—we have to get him to hospital.”

  Rick ignored my plea completely. He rounded on his bodyguards. “I told you to check that guy out!” he bawled to Al. “I said there was something wrong about him.”

  The bodyguards were smart enough to nod apologetically, even though I was betting they’d had no part in picking Morgan. More likely Rick had chosen him himself during a coke-fueled binge.

  Alec’s breathing was growing weaker. I crawled back to him and put my arms around his neck, drawing him close. “Please, Rick!”

  “You think I’m letting him walk out of here?” Rick asked. He brandished his cane. “After what he cost me? I got another fight in a month and no one to put on!” He suddenly swung the cane down again, hitting Alec’s ankle, this time. There was a sickening crunch.

  I threw myself across my brother’s legs. “Please! Please, no more!”

  Rick’s face darkened even more. He was angrier than I’d ever seen him. I saw, to my horror, that even his bodyguards were backing away. He’s out of control. “You’d better move,” he told me. “Unless you want this cane shoved up you.”

  I wasn’t crying. I was too scared to cry. He was going to kill Alec. He was going to rip my one remaining piece of family away from me. “Please!”

  “He’s better off dead,” said Rick. “If he can’t fight, he’s worthless to me.” He twirled the cane and then raised it over his head. “Get the fuck out of the way.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t move. I knew that me being there wouldn’t stop him. I knew that he’d just swing that cane straight down and batter his way through me, again and again, until he hit Alec. But I couldn’t leave my brother to die. I hugged Alec’s legs and tensed my whole body, waiting for the pain to hit. I searched for something, anything, to say that would stop this. And as the cane whistled down, my brain finally came up with two words.

  “I’ll fight!” I screamed.

  The end of the cane smacked into the concrete an inch from my head. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the eerie ringing of it.

  “What?” asked Rick. He sounded genuinely puzzled.

  I was still pressed against Alec’s body. I could feel his breathing—God, so weak. I gingerly raised myself up and twisted around to face Rick. “I’ll fight,” I said again. This time, the words actually registered in my brain.

  One of the bodyguards started to laugh.

  “I’ll fight, here in The Pit,” I said. “Put me on instead of Alec. I’ll fight whoever you want.”

  Rick looked at me with something between disgust and fascination. “You?” He looked at his two bodyguards for help. Al was laughing. Carl just looked amazed.

  “Please,” I said. Now the tears had started. I could feel them rolling down my cheeks. “Please. Let me—Let me fight.”

  Rick’s forehead wrinkled. “A girl fight?”

  “A catfight,” said Al, grinning cruelly.

  Rick considered. Then he lifted his cane and poked it under my chin. He used it to lift my head and turn it, examining me from all sides. I let him. “You’ve never fought in your life, have you?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  He squatted down so that he was on my level. “That crowd up there wants blood,” he told me. “That isn’t going to change, with two women. Whoever I get to fight you is going to beat the living crap out of you.” He leaned closer. “It goes on until someone can’t get up. You know what that means?”

  I nodded slowly. Every loser got beaten unconscious, but death was always a risk. Even Alec had come out of this fight barely alive—he still might die. For me—small, fragile and untrained—the ending would be inevitable.

  If I lost, I was going to die.

  I looked down at Alec. My tears were leaving dark, spreading pools on his tank top, mixing with the blood from his wounds.

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll do it. I’ll fight.”

  Aedan

  I could have ridden the train all the way back to Newark. Hell, I could have gotten a cab—I was o
kay for money, since I didn’t have much of anything to spend it on. But I like walking. No one bothers you, walking at night. Not if you look like me.

  So I got off a few stops early and walked past the industrial parks and the docks, past walls of shipping containers taller than buildings and past black water as still and calm as glass.

  My apartment block’s lousy for just about everything—no nearby stores, no nightlife. Half the apartments are empty, some with broken windows. No one in their right mind would want to rent there. Which is exactly why I liked it. No neighbors, no visitors. Everyone left me alone.

  Upstairs, I opened the windows to try to let in some air—the air conditioning broke a long time ago. But there was barely a breath of wind.

  I settled for a shower, cranking the spray up hard and cold and letting it blast against my body, foaming and hissing against my chest and then my back. Cold showers were a boxing thing, a good way of helping swollen muscles to heal. I hadn’t needed that for a long time. I’d kept in shape, still went to the same gym, but I hadn’t felt that burn and ache that comes from really using your body. Working out isn’t like fighting, in the same way cruising in your car on the freeway isn’t like a race.

  But tonight...tonight, I could feel just a hint of it. Just a touch of that fire in my shoulders and chest, from swinging punches. Just a little throb in my fists where they’d connected with those bastards faces.

  It felt good. I tried to tell myself it was because I’d done good, because I’d saved Sylvie. But I knew it went deeper than that. Fighting had felt good.

  It was the first time I’d raised my hands to anyone in over a year. The first time I’d let myself be myself, instead of a locked-down, hooded nobody.

  And something else had felt good, too. Her. The sight of her; the touch of her. I squeezed my hand shut, remembering the feel of her soft skin against my calloused fingers. The scent of that long dark hair when it had passed close to my face, like walking through a fucking meadow filled with blossoms.